


Inhabited Spaces

by elegantanagram (Lir)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Intercrural Sex, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, POV Second Person, Stolen Moments, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, businessman!Dave, pilot!Dad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-16
Updated: 2012-09-16
Packaged: 2017-11-14 08:45:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lir/pseuds/elegantanagram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a relationship staked on borrowed time, on the overlapping gaps between a pilot's schedule and the consuming itinerary of business. Mr. Egbert knows the value of stolen moments, filling his infrequent interludes with Dave with clandestine romanticism and overt affirmations of want.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inhabited Spaces

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FastPuck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FastPuck/gifts).



> For the enjoyment of both Puck and the happy niche of father time shippers, I present one isolated evening enjoyed by iterations of Dad and Dave springboarded off [Puck's Airline AU.](http://austuck.tumblr.com/tagged/airline-au)
> 
> Puck, I know I solicited your approval for this little endeavor a couple months back. I hope the final product meets with your approval. 
> 
> While the overarching AU features lovely polyamory and a Strider-Egbert-English n-drangle, the scope of this story really only encompasses Dad and Dave. It was a lot of fun playing with a different Dad/Dave dynamic than my usual headcanons, while attempting to preserve their voices as I tend to imagine them!

Your office only exists at thirty thousand feet. Your door stays shut once you are on the clock, admittance bought at a price more dear than any grounded wage-slave's caller might have to pay. There is no single building where you come to roost, as many an airport may call you friend. In this way, you are a transient. Far-away places are no longer romanticized from novelty, yet your job has not extinguished an appreciation for travel. 

One should not become a pilot unless he wishes to see something of the world. 

Airports themselves hold little mystique to your old hand, and you should not wish to spend even a fraction of your feeble hours off within those impartial halls. You stand by baggage claim; you ignore the carousel. You ignore the breach in logic that is fashioning yourself an island among rushing travelers when you need be no such thing. The marquee above your head proclaims a flight's arrival. Four-fifty. Right on time. 

You stand in off-clock clothes, a pressed button-down shirt and dark slacks, and await the familiar blonde head. He knows you're waiting. When you are very lucky, you catch sight of him first, and on those occasions you can admire his profile through the throng. You are assisted by being out of uniform. You have lost count of the number of times you've snagged his eye trailing over your distinctive figure on those stolen meetings when you are both officially attired, and it is an unspoken certainty that he appreciates that unmistakable look of you. 

It's just as nice to have, for once, a breath in which to shower and change and see him when you feel fresh, rather than wilted. 

This is one of those times, and you are treated to the sight of his sharp jaw and arching brow, though much of his face is shielded by his shades. His suit is pressed and proper, the lines of it straight across his shoulders and trim to his waist, though you notice even at a distance that his tie has been loosened and has yet to be adjusted. You can similarly recognize a certain tenseness to his posture, to his bearing when he carries himself, although his facade is, as usual, admirably in place. You know when he catches sight of you because a modicum of the rigidness slips from his spine, just as the muscles in his neck release some of their tension.

You are certain no one else in the room would notice the telltale signs of his stress, nor would they detect his relaxation; to the public eye, he is nothing if not composed. 

"David," you say, when he is only an arm's-breadth away, as you continue to drink in every little detail of his appearance. As you proceed to devour with your eyes the image of him, after another impossible stretch apart.

You are assured that behind his sunglasses, David is regarding you with similar interest, with his own poorly-maintained restraint. 

You both behave yourselves in the airport, congratulations to the pair of you issued in your head. 

But he leans into you, not actually touching, like a sunflower listing towards its source of warmth. His carry-on luggage is in the hand farther from you, and he is so close you can inhale the smell of him. 

"I'm fucking beat," he says, by way of greeting, voice even enough to make his statement seem a lie, though you believe him. 

"Let's take this reunion outside," you tell him. 

You offer to take his bag, just so you can place your hand on his over the handle.

"I've missed you," you add. 

You can both hear the depths beneath the words, the muted urgency, the want to be somewhere private and alone and to kiss too sweetly for public hearts, too lewdly for public stomachs. David refuses your help with his luggage, just so he can trail his hands down the inside of your arm, just so he can take the handle out of your hand. The slender fingers of both his hands wrap around yours, and for a long moment he is holding your hand over the plastic. Fondness swells in your chest, and you are fit to burst. 

Outside, you insist upon driving, never missing the opportunity to deny him his chartered car. 

His baggage is in the backseat and his body is over the gearshift and your fingers are against his jaw holding his face, when you kiss David. Each brush of your lips is still restrained and slow, far too much like you're inspecting him to see that he's still in working order. Each press from his mouth is a little bit faster, each kiss a reassuring brush of recklessness that answers 'I'm fine, I'm okay, I'm in one piece, I miss you I love you I care about you I am so very glad to see you.'

The drive to the cafe is quick and driven by muscle memory, a location the two of you have long since agreed upon for convenience. No one there ever comments on his face, and although this does not shock you, you would find it no more remarkable if he were recognized. 

You take your coffees at a small table by the front window, his ankle pressed against your shin, his upper body reclined back carelessly in his chair. 

"How was your trip?" you ask. 

You only want to hear his voice. 

"Terrible," he says, but with a relish that seems to contradict the statement. 

"I can't imagine," you say. Your voice is warm. You think you might want to tease him. "No layover. Your flight was mercifully on time."

"It's always terrible," David insists. "Awful. Dreadful. The sky's my oyster and that oyster got left in the sun so long it's rancid, there isn't enough Tabasco sauce in the world to cover that taste. It's bile going down, it's licking the inside of a toilet lid, and that's before you realize it might come back up. Or make war on your insides, that oyster was the Trojan horse and now those Greeks are inside you hacking up your internals. You think its over if you just suffer it down but that shit's gonna be with you a day later." 

David warms to his imagery before he's a dozen words in, and the metaphor goes colorfully off-track in a violently confused mixture. You cannot fault him; his voice takes on a certain cadence once he picks up speed, a compelling rhythm that entices the listener in complete contradiction to whatever wild thing comprises the content of what he's saying. He is difficult to discourage. 

Your lips quirk, hovering over the rim of your coffee cup, and you can almost feel the skin crinkling by the corners of your eyes. 

"What happened this time?" you prompt him, and you are the most despicable enabler. 

"The flying was good," David concedes. "Your coworker, whoever, he can handle a little turbulence like a pro. Smooth like a baby's butt. Maybe almost as smooth as you." 

If you smile at this compliment, you have the courtesy to drown it in your drink. 

"The passengers were awful."

You make a sympathetic noise, no need to impede his story. 

"The guy from coach who kept using the first-class toilet, he was just run-of-the-mill bad," David says. "It's his problem if he wants the entire plane wondering if he's got a urinary tract infection. Or maybe someone should've cut off his scotch. The real problem was _the girl_."

"Oh dear," your murmur, the weight David puts on "the girl" cluing you in that you're due for a treat. 

"I think she was teenaged," David says. "She must've had some sort of medical condition. The plane started its descent and she started to sob. Quiet at first, but then she got noisier. She gave the flight attendants a real bad scare. They kept walking over, hovering, asking if there was anything they could do. Figured she was just in a lot of pain, because she was clutching her head while she cried. She might have had a panic attack."

By the end of this recounting, David is not using his usual storyteller's smart-ass voice. It is clear that he began with the intention of complaining, but midway through sympathy colored his telling. Now he is more subdued than when he began, and you suspect that when he told you before that he was beat, he was nothing but sincerity. 

You slide your hand over his on the small table, and manage to recall a more humorous medical-drama-at-a-mile-high story for his entertainment. 

He does you an equal turn, describing the most unrepentant busybody of a passenger he ever had the misfortune of having for a seatmate. 

You tell him about one of your more recent weather complications, and speculate freely on the ramifications of the delay. 

Your coffees dwindle to nothing, and this is the point at which you would ordinarily have to see David off to his business meeting, or depart on your own to the airport for work. Slowly it dawns on the both of you that David has no obligations until the morning, and you have a remaining evening-long stretch of free time. It dawns on the both of you that you need not part ways with only a few more stolen kisses. 

The hotel is David's. You accept directions, although perhaps you should have anticipated where he would be staying in this city. There are few alternatives worthy of his patronage. You ride the elevator together to the top floor, looking out its glass front at the city, your arm wrapped leisurely around David's waist. The sky is coloring as evening begins to descend, and when you have almost had your fill of its majesty, you bury your nose in the back of David's hair, follow him out of the elevator when it at last reaches its final destination. 

The room key is in David's hand when he stops outside the door, cool plastic against your wrist when he pulls you forward, a firm edge against your hip when his hands settle against your waist. His mouth on yours is warm and vaguely sweet, still flavored faintly by the coffee he was drinking. It would only have taken a moment more to enter the room and be guaranteed privacy, but he prefers this. 

It is your preference, to be subtle in the airport.

He's needy even as he's tender, and sometimes you wish to share this affection with the world, even more than you wish to publicly display your claim to him. But you share so much of your life with the world at large. It's natural that you want to keep some parts of this yours and yours alone. The press of his lips is tempered by your returned kisses, until he is languid and pliant and able to pull himself away from you to unlock the door. 

The room is luxurious but largely understated, and though the furnishings are doubtlessly expensive, its one obvious concession to extravagance is the presence of floor-to-ceiling windows all along the outward-facing wall. More than the bedspreads and the bathtub, nothing can beat this view. Being high above the city pleases David, and he pulls the curtains open all the way before doing anything else, taking in the birds-eye vision of a city at dusk. 

The bed is as comfortable as you could have hoped, plush yet firm when he joins you on it, the menu for room service in his grasp. His body squirming up against yours is a more welcome comfort, as he leans against your chest and allows you to look over his shoulder at the menu spread out against his lap. 

"I get to buy you dinner," he says. 

His head tilts back, and you can see the pleased curve of his mouth. 

"I'm going to wine you and dine you. Romance you."

His voice is warm. Exultant. You can hear the image he's painting in his head. 

"If room service doesn't traffic in candles, they had better make an exception right the fuck now. I'm a man on a mission. And better, I'm the customer, and the customer is always right. I'll order a hundred candles. Vanilla and cinnamon. And I'll light this place up like Christmas."

He reaches up and touches your face, turns so he can look you in the eye.

"You've been a very good boy this year. Santa's brought you something extra special. Do you want to open your present?" 

You kiss him instead of answering, and he ends up ordering for both of you. 

You let him, because he likes trying to spoil you and you like making him happy. There is something undeniably charming about a man nearly half your age determining to take care of you. 

You put on a movie. 

AMC plays the best in black and white – classy, atmospheric films; old detective noirs. David's jacket has already been laid over the back of an armchair, his tie similarly loosened and discarded. You nestle together, David's body curled into yours, his fingers following the row of buttons up and down your shirt, constantly touching your chest. You wrap an arm around his shoulders, absently playing with his hair. You can see his toes curl in thin dress socks, and that small fact is the most endearing thing. 

Neither of you wants to get up when room service comes. 

David spreads the food on the bed, carelessly, placing it to one side with the intent not to jostle it. The nearby table is not good enough; he deems it wholly unsatisfactory and the idea is discarded. You are certain lobster tails were not meant to be finger food. It is a given that David only ordered such things for their unusual hand-feeding properties, but as you lick savory juices from each other's fingers, you cannot find fault with his intentions. 

It's childishly decadent. You cannot deny the strange appeal, nor can you discount the steady comfort in sharing a meal. At one point, David licks a spot of sauce from the corner of your mouth. You fork a measure of rice into his. There is wine; David is the only one who drinks it, though you kiss him as he sips it to catch the flavor. It's close enough to your next time flying that you should not be drinking. David understands this. 

The movie is still playing when you set your plates aside, and David pulls you back against the pillows as if determined to see the film through to its conclusion. His fingers sneak through the gaps between the buttons on your shirt, little moments of skin-on-skin contact that are over as quickly as they begin. He finds the tails of your shirt, slips his hand under the fabric to seek out the bare shape of your hipbone under cover. His lips are on your neck, pressing moist and hot. 

Your arm tightens around his shoulders where it has settled, your hips shifting minutely under the touch of his hand. Each glancing brush of lips is fleeting, and you feel the damp of his breath more than any contact of his mouth. You are used to David being quick and coaxing. The coy facade is a smokescreen you have long since blown away, and David knows that you are receptive to any of his directness. The leisureliness of his manner leaves you assessing whether you are meant to reciprocate.

You haven't heard a word said on screen in a solid five minutes.

David's tongue flicks against the shell of your ear. The nearness of his mass is a steady presence, a familiarity you crave when you are in the air or when he is miles away. It's comforting, and mildly arousing, until the breath of air is introduced between your sides when David pulls himself away by reaching across the bed. 

David's hand settles on the shape of the remote resting on the bedside table, an object whose trajectory you follow in time to see the lines of credits scrolling on the screen before David clicks the television off. The movie ended while David was kissing you, and you didn't even notice. You turn, present your front to David, offer the expanse of your chest for him to press against and return to. The bed dips, David's legs dangling over the edge as he pushes himself to stand up. 

David's hand settles against the glass of the window, held up just above his head when he presses his face similarly close. The light in the room, dimmed though it is, minimizes visibility to the outside, and you move behind David so as to see what he sees waiting in the night. While you are peering at the myriad lights of the cityscape spread out below you, David pushes his body back against yours. 

His rear fits itself to your front, so that when David rolls his hips he rocks neatly against your groin, once, twice, momentary pause as his forehead tips against the glass, a third time. 

You drop your hand to David's hip, opposite arm braced against the window beside David's, pull him so tightly to your body that he can't even grind into you for lack of leverage. You hold him still, slightly raised on his toes at the top of his last upward rock, and do the grinding for him. You push your hips into his backside with short, measured rolls, keeping him close and on almost-tiptoe until his breath hitches and his shades clatter against the glass as he moves his face. You stroke his hip, let him sink his heels back into the carpet, see the shape of his smile reflected in the glass. 

"I knew you wouldn't forget your present," he says.

"How rude of me," you reply, practice causing the long-dropped thread of conversation to jump back to mind with hardly a struggle. "Here I am, thoroughly manhandling my gift for its secrets, too impatient to properly reveal what waits inside. Presents are meant to be opened." 

David shudders slightly against you, a paroxysm that may have been a laugh, may have been an aching of arousal that would not go repressed. 

You slide one hand down, the other up, fingers meeting along the row of buttons neatly bisecting David's chest. He presses both forearms against the window then, supporting his weight as he holds his hips back to produce the necessary space for your working hands. Starting at the bottom, shirttails tugged preemptively out of David's pants, you slip the buttons free of their grasping eyelets, one by one. David's shirt falls open measure by measure, your hands gliding up over the flat expanse of his stomach, over his chest, brushing against the hollow of his throat before dipping back down. 

David's belt comes open with a quick jerk to the buckle, the leather sliding free of encroaching loops with a whisper and a hiss. David echoes the sound, though his noise is more a breath of anticipation.

David's pants are easily shoved past his hips, guided over his knees by your willing hands before falling to pool around his ankles. When your hands travel over the fabric of his briefs, he leans into the touch. It's no surprise to meet the hardness of his cock, pressing itself into your hands through David's underwear. 

You hook your thumbs into the elastic waistband, let your hands linger against his hips. 

"C'mon," David prompts, low and suddenly impatient. "Stop trying to protect the paper and just rip 'em off."

You laugh, low in your throat, a sound summoned forth almost to your surprise. You are very much the sort who untucks the corners of gift wrap, who peels back each strip of tape so that the paper might be removed undamaged. You reach into the front of David's underwear, untucking his dick from the confines and leaving David's briefs where they sit, opting instead to tug at his cock with sure, even strokes. Your grip is firm but the pace is slow, and David tries to shove into your hand harder, discontent with being soothed. 

You drag your fingers up the underside of David's cock, hold his length pressed against his stomach as your other hand reaches for your belt. The metal clinks, the button of your fly slips free, and the sound of your zipper drawing down is a low, metallic buzz. 

"That's the ticket," David says. "You haven't even gotten your toy all the way out of the box, and you're gearing up to play with it."

He's impertinent, but correct, your arousal giving an anticipatory throb of agreement in answer to David's words as you ease yourself free of your own undergarments. Your hand on your erection slides, shifts, like a promise to yourself, and you let your other hand drag over David's dick in perfect compliment to the way you are touching yourself. He tilts his head to the side, like he's trying to look back at you, before settling for locking eyes on your reflection in the glass instead. 

You smile at him, low simmer of heat and warm throb of assurance, thumb rubbing over the head of his cock. 

You let go of him. You press a kiss to the back of his neck, tuck your fingers back into the waistband of his underwear and tug down. Your hands follow the garment down the length of David's legs, dragging over toned muscle and supple flesh, thumbs flickering over the soft skin at the backs of his knees. 

"Right front pocket," David says. 

"There's more to my present?" you ask him, in muted amusement. 

"Of course," David says. "It's all about the details. That'd be like giving a kid some wicked high-tech gift and forgetting the batteries. Nah, Striders are always prepared." 

You're smiling again, little twitches at the corners of your mouth, fingers dipping into David's slacks to withdraw a narrow tube of lubricant. You stand, placing your face beside David's. The tube is open in your hand, its contents slicking your fingers. 

"I see that more with every day," you tell him, mildly. 

The words are followed by a brush of your lips to just beneath his ear, by the slide of your hand against the cleft of his ass. It's a thoughtful gesture, tracing your fingers lightly over his skin, letting the tip of your pointer finger dip against the flaring pulse of his muscles. And it's a teasing gesture; you draw back, drag your slick palms down the insides of his thighs. 

David pulls his legs together, subtly, and he's on the same page with you as always. You press your body up against his, your cock sliding between his legs to be gripped by the closely-pressed surfaces of his thighs. The material of your edged-down pants rubs against his bare skin when you move. 

David is watching you in the glass, once again. 

You can see your own expression – the slight, focused furrows to your brow, the smooth look of concentration that is you puzzling out your pacing. The lube from your hands is only just enough to ease your measured thrusts; it's all friction and sensation and when you press forward your cock teases against the underside of David's balls. You stop looking at your own face because it's extraneous; unimportant. 

David moves against you, subtly, pressed forward into the huge glass windowpane even as he holds himself to your carefully-orchestrated use. He's ragged breath and straining muscles, like cables stretched to taut vibration, anticipating being plucked and played like bowstrings. You wrap your arm around his middle, grasp his cock in one broad palm and pull him to needy keening. You can feel his tenseness shift, torn between jerking into your hand and remaining as he is, angled against your rutting. 

You rock your hips, stroke his dick, take visceral pleasure in the closeness, the messy immediacy of it. 

David is prone to fevered utterances, little gasped-out endearments and half-articulated demands. He's smug and sanguine and a little bit impatient until you get going. Then he's intense, consumed, dripping gratified noises and curses and the occasional frantic I-love-you, like a talisman against harm, or against withheld pleasure. He isn't quiet unless he has to be, and David's sounds and his words go straight to your cock.

David coaxes you along with moans and entreaties, until the tight, wordless crescendo that is him gasping and coming all over your curled fingers. For your part, your touches never falter, attentive to the last in wild spite of your labored breathing and ratcheting personal need. For you it is a slow build, an inexorable rise of impending orgasm that catches you up just as David is coming down. You spatter his thighs, suspect you have both speckled the glass in your enthusiasm. 

Your arm is around David's middle, sliding up his stomach in disregard of its stickiness. You breathe into his hair, pet his side with your other hand, let him shift within your grasp when he turns and wraps his arms about your neck. His lips are on yours, slow and sweet, like taking the time to relish what he's accomplished. 

David lounges back against the window, pulling you against him and lazily pressing his mouth to yours, repeatedly, the occasional flick of his tongue savoring the taste of your kisses. He's charming, and you succumb to the leisurely attention. When David presses off the glass, steps out of his pants, drops his arms to let his shirt slide free of his shoulders, the timing is of his choosing. 

"I still want to unwrap my present," he murmurs, when he tugs at the clothes you're still wearing. "I got impatient."

His hands on you are insistent, but unhurried, doing down your buttons with patient care. Fabric is pushed back casually, articles removed one by one to David's increasing satisfaction. It is David who elects to kiss on the bed after cleaning up, legs tangling, noses rubbing occasionally in a way you think is deliberate. 

You force him to bed when he yawns into your mouth, recalling his flight today and his meeting in the morning. This is borrowed time, hours that feel pilfered because your schedules so rarely facilitate time alone. Much as you might enjoy extending it, you are not entirely selfish. 

It is a rare privilege to sleep with David pressed against your chest all the same.


End file.
